By twos and tens, by hundreds and thousands they fell and their blood soaked into this sacred soil.

By squads and companies, by battalions and regiments they fell in combat and their bodies were laid beneath this sod and their blood mixed with the soil.
In drops and trickles, in pints and by the heart-full their blood was spilled and spread across the red clay dirt of Dixie.
In battles and skirmishes and engagements; in hospitals, homes and tented camps, illness took them and their bodies were laid to rest in the soil of the Southland.
On the fields where they fell, in church yards, by the road sides they were interred. In a land scarred and riven by war the soil was billowed with the graves until the surface of the land was like the ocean on a windy day - roll after roll after roll.
And their bodies became one with the loamy land of Dixie.
The rains fell and the occasional snow covered the land so that moisture penetrated the earth, carrying their blood deep into our fields.
Not just the soldiers, either. Poverty, disease, starvation carried off women, even children. Much of the condition causing their deaths was a deliberate ploy induced by a cunning and heartless invader who hated the South and all things Southern, who hated out of envy and who superciliously sought for a false moral high ground to justify their immoral actions.
So the blood of innocents was shed, the lives of the blameless were taken. Their forms went beneath the sod. And those forms mingled with the soil, the soil on which we now stand.
The seasons passed and trees dropped their leaves. The leaves crackled and crumbled, turning to humus and enriching the soil, mixing with their blood.
Those who survived that holocaust tilled the earth, planted and tended the seed, and lo, the crops grew and matured and they were nourished by the produce of the soil, a soil enriched by the blood.
Now we stand, in our day, sprung from their loins, though at a remove in time. And we till the soil and eat of the fruit of the land, the land which holds their bodies, the land which is soaked with their blood.
Intolerant and angry voices are today raised against those people, our people, the people of our past.
In the name of "diversity" exclusion is practiced and practiced against us because of our sires and dames.
In the name of "tolerance" intolerance is shown towards the South and all things Southern.
Our children are taught [in government schools] more about the 5th of May [Mexican Cinco de Mayo] than about 21 July, 1861 [Battle of First Manassas]. They should be taught about both battles against imperialist invaders.
They are given the words to folk songs from every part of the world but can attend kindergarten through 12th grade and 4 years of college without hearing the soul stirring strains of "Dixie." They should know the songs of their own forebears.
They are taught the holidays and heroes of all the cultures in the nation but are never told January 19th is the birthday of Robert E. Lee. They should know the heroes of their own people.
The voice of John Brown, the axe murderer from Kansas, the terrorist of Harpers Ferry, is mild compared to some of the voices which speak out against the South today.
The politically correct have come to teach us their ways. They scorn us for being what we are. But they will fall. When Political Correctness is but the unpleasant distant memory of a forgotten fad, the starry blue cross of St. Andrew on a red field will still wave over a proud, brave and free people.
We cannot be worn down, we cannot be overpowered because our fields bring forth food which contains not only nutrients for our bodies but which replenishes our spirits and our souls.
We are different, we Southerners, because we are nourished by the remains of heroes. They have enriched our soil. We are nourished by their blood.
And, strengthened by that nourishment, we do not forget, we do not turn back, we do not surrender.
Those who wish to say us "nay" may do so. Those who wish to forget the past will do so. But may God have mercy on their shriveled up little souls. We hold fast to our Confederate heritage for we are nourished by the blood of heroes and martyrs.
That blood is within us. We cannot fail to remember them! Deo Vindice